He went back outside, gathered more files into his arms. In the distance, he could see the three figures working in the mist - Wylie, Hood, Reagan - while their shadows danced on the pitted surface of the compound. The scene seemed timeless to him. Humans had been working like this, moving things in sub-zero gloom, for thousands of years. And to what end? So much of the past simply disappeared. But it was their job to make sure past crimes did not go unpunished, whether they be committed the day before or two decades before. Not because justice or the lawmakers demanded it, but for all the silent victims. the haunted souls. And for their own satisfaction, too. Because in trapping the guilty, they atoned for their own sins of commission and omission. How in God's name could you switch that all off for the sake of swapping some presents...?
Siobhan came out to help, broke the spell. She cupped hands to her mouth and called out that she was making coffee. Cheers and clapping. The scene no longer timeless but discrete, the figures turned into personalities. Reagan thumping his gloved hands together, bouncing on his toes, glad to be part of this adventure: something to stave off the daily loneliness of his job. Hood whooping, but not breaking stride as he moved chairs from one unit to the other: the work ethic strong in him. Wylie raising her hand, announcing that she took two sugars: making sure she got what she wanted.
'Strange job, isn't it?' Siobhan commented.
'Yes,' he agreed. But she meant Reagan's.
'Every day stuck out here on your own, all these concrete boxes full of secrets and other people's stuff. Aren't you curious what else we'd find if we opened a few doors?'
Rebus smiled. 'Why do you think he's so keen to help out?'
'Because he's a generous soul?' Siobhan guessed.
'Or he doesn't want us snooping.' She looked at him. 'Reason I was indoors so long, I thought I'd take a look at his client list.'
'And?'
'Couple of names I recognised: fences who live in Pilton and Muirhouse.'
'Just along the road.' Rebus nodded. 'No way we can search without a warrant.'
'All the same, a useful piece of ammo should Mr Reagan start proving uncooperative.' He glanced at her. 'And something to bear in mind next time we pull either of them in on a charge: no point getting a search warrant for a flat in Muirhouse when the stuff's sitting in self-storage.'
They took a break, huddling in the office. Four of them: Hood said he wanted to keep going; Wylie could take his coffee out to him when she'd finished hers.
'Boy wouldn't go down well with the unions,' was Reagan's comment.
The heater was Calor gas, all three elements lit. Not much insulation in the cabin. The long narrow window to the front wore a film of condensation, with occasional beads breaking free to trickle downwards, gathering on the sill. There was one overhead bulb, and a desk lamp. The room was fuggy and yellow-bathed. Reagan accepted a cigarette from Rebus, the two men forming a huddle while the non-smoking women edged away.
'New Year resolution,' Reagan said, examining the tip of the cigarette. 'I'm giving them up.'
'Reckon you'll make it?'
The man shrugged. 'Might do, all the practice I get -two or three times a year I try calling a halt.'
'Practice makes perfect,' Rebus admitted.
'How long do you reckon this'll all take?' Reagan asked.
'We appreciate your cooperation, sir.' Said in the voice of someone who had suddenly become an official, all cigarette-sharing bonhomie erased. Reagan got the point: this policeman could make a nuisance of himself given the motivation. Then the door flew open and Grant Hood staggered in. He was carrying a computer screen and keyboard, pushed his way past them and dropped it on to the cleared desk.
'What do you think?' he asked, getting his breath.
'Looks ancient,' Siobhan commented.
'Not much use without the hard drive,' Ellen Wylie added.
Hood grinned. It was the answer he'd been waiting for. He reached beneath his coat, to where something was tucked into his waistband. 'Hard disks like we have weren't around back then. Slot on the side is for floppies.' He pulled out half a dozen cardboard squares, circular holes in them like old novelty records. 'Nine-inch floppies.' he said, waving them in front of him. With his free hand, he patted the keyboard. 'Probably a DOS-based WP package. Which, if that doesn't say much to any of you, means I'm going to be stuck in here.' He put down the floppies and rubbed his hands in front of the flames. 'While you lot are out there seeing if you can find any more disks.'
By the end of play, they'd emptied half the garage, and a lot of what was left looked like furniture. Rebus took three box-files away with him, thinking he'd make an evening of it at St Leonard's. The station was quiet. This time of year, pickpockets and shoplifting were the major concerns: crowds in the Princes Street stores, wallets and purses bulging. You got muggings at cash machines, too. And depression: some said it was the short bursts of daylight and longer stretches of dark. People drank themselves angry, drank until they unravelled. Bust- ups. windows smashed - bus shelters; phone boxes; shops and pubs. They took knives to their loved ones, slashed at their own wrists. SAD: Seasonal Affective Disorder.
More work for Rebus and his colleagues. More work for the A&E departments, the social workers, the courts and prisons. Paperwork mounting as the Christmas cards started to arrive. Rebus had long since given up writing cards, but people persisted in sending them to him: family, colleagues, a few of his drinking cronies.
Father Conor Leary always sent one. But Leary was still convalescing, and Rebus hadn't been to see him for a while. Hospital beds reminded him of his daughter Sammy, unconscious after the hit-and-run which had put her in a wheelchair. In Rebus's experience, Christmas was about sham get-togethers, about pretending that all was well with the world. A celebration of one man's birth, carried out with tinsel and trappings, and conducted in a haze of white lies and alcohol. Or maybe it was just him.
There was no sense of urgency as he studied each page from the box. He kept taking coffee and cigarette breaks, stepping outside, lighting up in the car park at the rear of the station. Business correspondence: deadly dull. Newspaper clippings: commercial properties for sale and rent, some of them circled, some with double question marks in the margin. Once Rebus had identified Freddy Hastings' handwriting, he was able to tell that it was a one-man operation, no other hand at work. No secretary. And where did Alasdair Grieve fit in? Meetings: Alasdair was always mentioned at the meetings; business lunches. Maybe he was a meeter and greeter, his surname lending a certain something to the operation. Cammo's brother, Lorna's brother, Alicia's son - someone prospective clients would want to dine with.
Back inside to warm his feet and dig into the box, retrieving another batch of documents. And then another cup of coffee, a wander downstairs to talk to the night shift in the Comms Room. Break-ins, fist fights, family quarrels. Cars stolen, vandalised. Burglar alarms tripped. A missing person reported. A patient who'd absconded from his hospital ward, dressed only in pyjamas. Car smashes: black ice on the roads. One alleged rape; one serious assault.
'Quiet night,' the duty officer said.
Camaraderie on the night shift. One officer shared his sandwich snack with Rebus. 'I always seem to make one more than I need.' Salami and lettuce on wholemeal bread. A carton of orange juice if Rebus wanted one, but he shook his head.
'This is fine,' he said.
Back at his desk, he jotted notes based on his findings, flagging some of the pages by dint of fixing Post-it notes to them. Looked at the office clock and saw it was almost midnight. Reached into his pocket and checked his cigarette packet: just the one left. That decided it. He locked the files in a drawer, put his coat on, and headed out. Cut through to Nicolson Street. There were all-night shops there, three or four of them. Cigarettes and a snack on his shopping list; maybe something for tomorrow's breakfast. The street was noisy. A group of teenagers screaming for a non-existent taxi; people weaving home. cartons of carry-out food held close to them, faces bathing in steam. Underfoot: greasy wrappings, dropped gobbets of tomato and onion, squashed chips. An ambulance sped past, blue light flashing but sirenless, eerily silent amidst the street's cacophony. Conversations turned high decibel by drink. And older groups, too, well dressed, heading home from a night at the Festival Theatre
